Nevermore
by Paulathe Cat
Summary: Supernatural version of Poe's The Raven. Dean ponders weak and weary  after Season 7 Episode 2  while Sam sleeps nearby. There are spoilers for all seasons up to and including 7.02. StrongLanguage/Destiel if you squint, but mostly Dean missing his friend


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural. I don't own The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, This is a transformative work of fiction, for which I garner neither acclaim nor money. Sad. Set after Season 7 episode 2.

***Spoiler Alert*** There are massive spoilers for all seasons up to, and including, 7.02.

**RATED T**: There is profane language… It is Dean, after all… There are also allusions to self-harm. There may be Destiel, if you squint; of course, it can also be Dean mourning his friend. This is the Raven, though, so take it how you like. Playing the part of the "Lost Lenore" will be our favorite nerdy angel.

**Words:** 4,238

**Nevermore**

It had been several months since the Leviathan tore the Winchesters' world apart. Humans, for their part, continued to pray to the "new god" and churches converted to the way illuminated during His very brief tenure. Still, parishioners didn't know He had gone for good. The message was spread and missionaries were flung worldwide to bring the news. Hate mongers of the old way, the "Burn in Hades" crowd that routinely showed up under the old order to condemn the wickedness of one group or another were conspicuous in their absence. One particularly vocal advocate of the old order very publicly denounced "the way" from which he had earned millions of dollars in favor of the "New God". There was a full page article in national papers and was much speculated piece of punditry across the airwaves. He even left all his worldly pursuits to "witness" to his previous colleagues for the Way things would be now.

The Leviathan were also conspicuous in their absence. Only those who knew what to look for typically found them. Hunters were disappearing off the face of the planet and there were very few to block the tide of the supernatural from tearing apart civilians. Every time a Hunter sniffed the trail of the supernatural, they often found themselves face to face with one of the Leviathan. The pity was they never knew it until it was too late.

The whole world spun unrelenting day into night. The people went about their mundane lives, happily ignorant of the many crises averted by those who continued to die for them. They decked their halls and made merry (as it was December) completely unaware of the Apocalypse being thwarted (twice), thankless hunters lost their lives to keep them safe from the unnatural, and the fact that the Winchester brothers had given their fair share, and then some, to keep the Earth from being destroyed.

So it was that, while store fronts were festive and seasonal—more out of habit at this point rather than conviction—Dean and Sam Winchester found themselves in the home of a once prominent figure in modern politics and religion since he had abandoned his home in favor of more ecclesiastical pursuits. The "New God" turned those of the "Old Word" to a new reflection by smiting those who showed less than the appropriate tolerance. It was possible this had something to do with the Reverend's new way of thinking. Dean smirked a little at the irony.

The house was huge but Dean had set up a chaise lounge with blankets and pillows for Sam. They holed up in a massive library/study filled with books on religion, myths, and legends. There were plush chairs interspersed in the stacks and stacks of bookcases. The mahogany desk was so large; Sam could have lain upon it and would not have had a part of him slip over the edges. At the moment, it was piled high with many of the books Dean deemed useful to his current pursuit as well as however many books they were able to find of their own. For a guy who espoused intolerant nonsense, he had quite a collection of the occult and pagan rites—Not nearly as eclectic or useful as Bobby's library of resources, but this guy wasn't a slouch. The dust and the smell of age on some of the tomes, however, told Dean more than he needed about what the guy did with the books. They were interesting pieces to his collection. Dean doubted the guy knew what any of them actually said.

It was possibly the coldest December in recorded history and they dragged all the many blankets and covers from the mansion's many rooms into the one room they intended to occupy. Dean wondered why such a large house was so devoid of inhabitants. He had staked the place out for nearly a week before they decided to take a chance. The guy who owned the place wasn't going to be coming back any time soon. He was well known enough that the media would alert him to his impending return at any rate. But, the fact that all his servitors were absent was a great mystery. He had discovered that all the men and women who used to work at the house were dismissed, but no information was given to why.

The decision to occupy the study gained attractiveness by virtue of the large gas-fueled fireplace that effectively kept the chamber warm if they closed the double wooden doors that served to separate them from the rest of the house. Dean sat hunched in the plump reddish-brown leather chair cocooned in a plush blanket and an old-fashioned quilt while he leaned over the over-sized desk. He felt his eyes drooping and his body ache. He was so very tired. The last months had exhausted him. Each day he found something that was more draining than physically taxing elements of Hunting. The cold, while mitigated by heavy blankets and the warm fire, still managed to sap the energy they had. There were emotional drains, too, that were difficult to ignore. Dead end after dead end brought them back to square one. Failure crept into Dean's every waking thought when he didn't keep his mind on solving the mystery of how to defeat the ancient Leviathan. Not to mention… Sam.

Sam needed constant reassurance and confirmation of what was real and what was Hell stealing his sanity. Some days, Dean felt like they had managed to take two steps of progress just to find they had taken ten steps backward the next time he caught his baby brother's eyes slip into madness. Once more, he glanced at Sam's sleeping form. Tonight was okay. No screaming yet. Tonight might be one of those times where Dean saw a glimmer of hope that Sam could fight this. He shook his head with a grim press of his lips. No use thinking that. He knew it only made the regression so much more painful when it came.

It didn't help that each time he looked up from the lore books that the room was a constant reminder of all they'd lost. A book, a Bible, a tome—each leather-bound volume reminded Dean of Bobby. Each smell of leather and dusty manuscript, each touch of soft cover or sound of fragile vellum pages being turned reminded them of the older hunter. No body had been turned up and Sherriff Mills confirmed that Bobby had been with her… she remembered he was there even through the drug addled haze… but, couldn't tell them when he'd left her or where he'd gone. She told them the fire crews had done a thorough search of the house. They turned up some rather disturbing things, but no one had died in the fire. Sherriff Mills and the Fire Marshall had altered the report to omit some of the more interesting finds at Bobby's and the boys were just as happy that they had. Still, if Bobby was alive, he would have tried to contact them.

Dean pushed away that thought. He lifted his eyes to stretch them from squinting for so long in the low light. He arched his back lifting his arms up and over his head, rolling his shoulders and bending his head to work the kinks out of his neck. The memory of his friend and confidante was difficult to think about, but the room was filled with other reminders of the past year as well. There were paintings in the room—paintings depicting Heaven's Host in a variety of genres and from different time periods. Paintings of Light with haloed seraph in gossamer robes mingled with Warriors of Heaven—Michael battling Satan. There were alcoves in the walls where statues of ceramic or marble featured God's Messengers. This guy really loved angels.

Dean refused to think the name of one particular angel. It hurt too much. He dragged his eyes away from the angel perched in the alcove closest to the door wielding a sword above his head, powerful wings mantled in aggression. Exhaustion—both physical and emotional—threatened to overtake him. He felt the prickling sting of tears filling his eyes. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the tome on top of the massive desk. He was reading of all the different interpretations of Leviathan and found one in Norse mythology. Jormungandr was supposedly one of Loki's off-spring. Dean paused to wonder if it was the same Loki they had known. He wondered if they meant Gabriel.

Damn it.

Everything kept bringing his mind back to one being. He tried to stop thinking about the angel and adamantly refused to even think his name. Everything in the room kept dragging him back to blue eyes, scruffy face, messy dark-brown hair, tan trench coat, backward and askew tie loosely hanging from around his neck—a nameless angel.

Dean was staring off into the darkened room when he thought he heard a noise. He felt his blood run cold in his veins, a shot of adrenaline crawled up his spine and pooled at the base of his neck. He thought he heard the sound of rustling wings. His heart hammered in his chest. He reached for his Colt M1911 and checked the mag. He spared a glance to his sleeping brother. Sam hadn't moved; he could hear the soft inhalations and the rasp of each exhale.

Dean stood up and walked to the double door leading to the rest of the empty dark home. He stood with his back against the door frame, gun's safety off and barrel pointed down in front of him. "Not him, not him, not him, not him" echoed in his brain. He listened but didn't hear anything. Dean drew a deep breath and steeled himself. He opened the door a crack, just enough to gaze out into the great, open room used to entertain guests—filled with warm-colored cushy chairs and sofas. Maybe, he dreamed it. He considered that he had imagined hearing the flapping of angel wings. It was possible since he had angels-on-the-brain 24/7 lately.

"Hello." Dean called into the night. He received no response; though, he didn't really expect one. He looked deeper into the outer room, gun at the ready and tried to ignore the splash of cold fear that penetrated down to his bones. He stood staring moments more, but still heard nothing. The darkness seemed completely undisturbed. He hadn't said the name in months, but he couldn't stop himself.\

"Cas?"

He jumped in surprise when he thought he heard the whispered name echo back to him. He gripped the gun with both hands, glanced over his shoulder at his brother and looked around once more in the empty room. He stepped back into the study, into the red and gold flickering light. He reached out his hand to close the door and grimaced when he noticed it was shaking.

He turned back into the study, but continued to hold his gun at the ready. It might not kill an angel or demon, but the gun made him feel slightly more secure. Another thing he considered was making sure there was still salt on the windowsills. He moved over to the purple window coverings. He pushed them aside to reveal a thick unbroken line of white crystals. He checked the angel wards on the windows and doors. Then, he walked to stand near his sleeping brother.

"It was my imagination, Sammy." He whispered. "Just the wind or something."

Dean kept walking the perimeter of the room, checking the windows and doors to make sure they were secure. When he returned to the big desk and the chaise where Sam lay sleeping, he thought he managed to slow his heart back to normal when he saw a movement.

He looked toward the door and saw a man standing there, clad all in black with bright blue eyes and short black hair. He appeared completely indifferent to Dean's surprise or the threat of the gun now leveled at him. He stared at Dean but didn't say a word.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded.

The visitor simply regarded Dean with deep contemplation, but remained silent.

"I'm gonna ask you once more, ass-hat. Who are you?"

A movement of the creature's mouth was quickly concealed, though if the creature thought Dean was funny, it didn't shine in his azure eyes. "Nevermore." The creature replied.

Dean scoffed but his gun never wavered.

"Is that meant to be funny? You better tell me what the Hell you are and why you're here or I'm gonna use you for target practice! Do you hear me?"

The creature didn't move. He simply continued his stoic regard of Dean as he repeated, "Nevermore."

"You've got some balls on you. I gotta give you that." Dean murmured. "Okay, Nevermore… You know, I've… we've been through a lot this year…" Dean swept with his free hand at his brother who continued sleeping. "So, why don't you just tell me what the Hell you want?"

The creature, Nevermore, watched Dean. His gaze was unnerving; it was like the gaze of his nameless angel. Dean had a moment when all their lost friends' faces flashed through his mind. Ellen and Jo in the hardware store holding hands while Jo bled out on the floor. Dad in the hospital after the car crash then hooked up and shocked as doctors and nurses struggled to start his heart. Images of the pyre where they watched the last remnant of their family burn in a Hunter's funeral rite flashed through his memory. Ash, Pamela, Pastor Jim, Caleb, Bobby… then, last Castiel.

He looked up at Nevermore.

"Did you do that? Did you just scan through my memories?"

Dean saw Nevermore's expression sadden for a mere shadow of a moment. "Nevermore."

Dean raised his gun and approached Nevermore with more aggression than he did before.

"Is that all you can say?" He screamed into the creature's face, spittle flying and landing on the creature's cheek. "What the Hell is that supposed to mean, 'Nevermore'?" Dean's eyes widened. He considered he might be dreaming since Sam still hadn't awakened despite Dean raised voice. He also considered this was some kind of messenger, but Dean couldn't decipher from whom Nevermore could have come.

He also considered that the creature intended to push Dean through the last vestiges of sanity, creating a gibbering mess of Winchester that would make a match set.

Then, Dean stilled. He heard the tell-tale sound that started this whole thing. The sound of angel wings. He turned to peer into the room, past his sleeping brother, through the bookshelves and around the paintings that decorated the perimeter and the painted sigils and wards meant to protect them from supernatural intrusion. He smelled cologne, a fragrance that was clean and pure; he had a memory thrust into his mind by the olfactory prompt—dry rasp of feathers accompany the smell of a spring morning after a light rain, hamburgers and leather. Dean's eyes began to mist. The barrel of the gun dropped to the floor; Dean gripped the handle tight with shaking hands. His knees felt weak and he remained standing with tremendous effort.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Dean croaked. "Haven't I given enough? I've lost everything… EVERYTHING! I've lost family… my… my friend. I can't give you anything more. I have nothing left to give!" Dean dropped to his knees, no longer able to bear his own weight. His arms dangled at his side. He felt so defeated and lost.

The creature looked at Dean with just his bright blue eyes, the rest of him remaining still. After several moments passed in silence, Dean looked up at Nevermore.

"Have you seen him?" Dean asked as green eyes of the Hunter met ethereal blue. "Can you tell me if he's there… in heaven?" Tears fell unnoticed, dropping down his cheek and onto his denim-clad thigh. He still couldn't say the name.

"Nevermore." The creature whispered.

Dean exploded once more. His emotions were yo-yoing all over the place. He became enraged.

"You're a demon! Aren't you?" He grabbed the bag lying nearby and pulled a handful of the contents, throwing the salt at the creature's face. Little motes of white crystals stuck on the creature's skin and clothing, but the creature, himself, remained unaffected—neither flinching nor stirring.

"Who sent you? Crowley?" Dean screamed, waving the gun at him. He rose from his place on the floor and took an intimidating step forward. Nevermore remained stoic and placid. "What do you _want_ from me?" Dean yelled. "Throw me a bone here!"

The creature shook his head, "Nevermore."

Dean began pacing. He cast surreptitious looks at the creature from time to time.

"They could have left my ass in the pit. He should have left me there. The angels could've stopped it all before it started. Michael wouldn't have tried to take me and even if Sam had broke that last seal, the Apocalypse wouldn't have happened. It never should've gotten as out of control as it got! He'd…" Dean's voice broke as emotions swept through him. His memory conjured the image of the tan trench coat that currently resided in the hidden armory in the Impala. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "He'd still be a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. He'd still be a dick, but he'd be alive… or as alive as an angel is I guess."

The creature stood still and quiet. Dean looked at those blue eyes once more and felt a stabbing in his heart as the emotions continued to bubble and storm inside of him. Their eyes met. Dean could barely identify all the feelings that swelled within him. He only saw apathy in the creature before him. The creature's chest puffed out and the word was uttered in a gruff voice devoid of empathy.

"Nevermore."

Dean raged in pain. "Fuck off!" He exploded. Dean pulled the gun and put it right into the creature's face. "Go back to Heaven or Hell or Purgatory, you bastard! Leave me to my grief and pain! Take the knife from my heart and just leave! I'm tired of hearing 'Nevermore' come out of your fucking mouth!" He pressed the barrel of the handgun to the creature's lips.

"Say it again, Asshole." Dean warned, his voice hoarse and quiet as it dropped to threatening silence. "I will pull this fucking trigger."

The rage he felt still warred within him as reflected in the narrowing of his red-rimmed green eyes. He'd lost everything- and to what end? He lost his mother so a demon could make his baby brother a general of the armies of Hell. That nearly happened… would have happened even though the cost to prevent it was so very high. It was more than losing Sam to Yellow-Eyes. Dean gambled and lost his own soul, bartering it for Sam's life. Forty years in Hell so he could lose Sam all over again, this time to demon blood. Ruby had taken Sam and twisted him up so badly, Dean barely knew him once they were reunited. He lost Sam again, this time when Lucifer managed to get him to say "yes". Dean lost his brother to the pit in an attempt to thwart the Apocalypse.

He looked at the still slumbering form on the sofa. Sam had not stirred in the yelling or in all the movement. Dean felt a profound sense of loss. He spent forty years in Hell, most of that time being tortured, and had escaped the torment of perdition. All because of one angel, sent to harrow Hell and fetch a righteous man… Dean didn't feel righteous. He never had. That one angel had helped them over and over again. He saved them, healed them, and came when they called… when Dean called. Castiel had fought against the inhabitants of Heaven and Hell, fought against his own brothers, stood up to at least four archangels and exploded into bitty little bits… twice. Somehow, Dean's nerdy little angel managed to keep coming back. Every day, he had expected to hear "Hello, Dean" in a gravelly rough voice at his elbow, as his friend invaded his personal space and cocked his head sideways in that curious way that made Dean's mouth twitch. He promised to not complain about personal boundaries when that day came.

The soft snuffle of his brother's sleeping breaths caught Dean's attention. He felt that his secret wish to hear that voice once more was kind of betrayal of his brother. Sam, in his moments of lucidity, assured Dean that he grieved for the loss of Castiel as well. Sam tried not to speak the angel's name after he noticed how it made Dean flinch and cringe. Sam watched Dean, probably as closely as Dean watched Sam, in the months since the rise and fall of Godstiel.

The day of Castiel's return never came. Each day, Sam got worse and worse and Dean slipped further into the bottom of a bottle. After Sam's first suicide attempt, Dean stopped drinking himself into oblivion. The memories of his time in Hell overtook his dreams unabated. Dean was no longer able to drown and numb the rampant stampede of emotions he had tried so hard to repress.

Dean wasn't sure he knew how to deal with the ramifications of the craziness in his life completely sober. He had no one to offer respite to him. He needed to be on-duty at all times. His brother needed him and there would be no one to provide him relief.

HE looked up to the gun he was holding in the face of the intruding creature. It wasn't the first time he looked at the gun when he thought about eternity caring for his brother without help, without support, without Bobby, without Castiel…

Dean's eyes trailed the top of the gun to the face of the creature. He looked past his plump lips, to his round, pert nose , up to the creature's luminous crystal blue eyes. Dean felt his own eyes well with stinging tears again. His breath hitched and he gasped, choking down a sob that threatened to escape.

The creature looked at the hunter the entire time as if he was aware of the emotional turmoil currently churning within the distraught man. He made no indication through facial expression, body language or verbal reassurance. Dean lowered his gun.

"Nevermore." The creature said.

"Dean!"

Dean jerked upright to blink his bleary eyes at the tall form standing in front of him. Dean's long sleeves were damp, his eyes and face felt swollen and sore.

"You okay?"

Dean looked down at the books that he had been using as a pillow. He coughed and rubbed his face with his left hand, noticing with remote detachment that his right hand grasped his gun with white-knuckled fortitude. He was concerned at his lack of precautions with the gun when he also saw that the gun's safety was off. He shivered at the thought of what could have occurred. What concerned him most was that Sam stood in front of him, waking him. He had fallen into such a deep sleep, that he neglected his brother. He needed to be more alert and Sam looked like he had spent quite a while trying to wake him.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam soothed. "It was only a dream… not real."

"Thanks Sam." Dean was proud that he said it without any trace of irony. Sam's soft reassurance that Dean's dream wasn't real was really too much. Dean stood, then, facing the angel statue in the alcove. He felt a chill enter him as he looked upon it. "We need to get the Hell out of here."

Sam nodded and began to gather their belongings. They decided to take the more useful books and a few of the blankets, silver objects, and piled into the Impala.

Dean sat at the wheel of his car and sighed. He felt the deep bone-weary fatigue of one who never truly rests. He looked at the mansion before putting the car into drive.

He could almost see the creature , Nevermore, standing in the shadows of the house, staring in quiet contemplation as the Winchester brothers sat in their car. Dean knew he would never more feel the weight come from off his shoulders. This was his life now. His burdens would never be shared. His brother would always need him.

Isn't this what he always wanted? He wanted to be needed and now he was. Sam needed him and Dean knew he couldn't fall or fail. He had to remain stalwart. Dean closed his eyes. He would never have Bobby to confide in anymore—though he frequently poured his thoughts and feelings out into recorded messages on the old man's voice mail until the mailbox became so full it wouldn't allow more. He would never more smile at his socially awkward angel as he tilted his head in confusion at some pop-culture reference Dean would make. He still occasionally prayed to Cas, he just never said the angel's name. He knew the prayer went unheard, but he hoped for some miracle. Now, Dean knew when he would get his miracle—Nevermore.

**A/N:** _The Raven_ by Edgar Allen Poe is my husband's favorite poem. He commissioned me to write a fic with the _Legend of Sleepy Hallow_ by Washington Irving. In my research, I came across a reference to Poe and it made me think about Season 7 in a different light. Dean, to me, isn't a particularly suicidal type—self-sacrificing, yes… but, not suicidal. I simply thought he must have considered it as an escape at some point. If he wasn't so duty-bound as he is, and if his dedication to his brother wasn't so strong, this might have ended differently. Hubby suggests that the story isn't about suicide; it's about the author being so tired of the discouragement in life that death becomes a welcome rest that he does not fear. Dean has actually met Death. He also knows that death would not necessarily be better for him. He may not get rest, even in heaven. I have him asking if Cas is in Heaven as he contemplates death and how he might face it.

I know that The Raven ends differently, but this is also about Dean. I see the ending here, as well as the thoughts throughout, as a demonstration of Dean's metaphorical death. He will never live his life, he never has. Dean has always lived through others. His life means nothing to him. He feels his own worth through what he can do for others whom he loves.

I hope you enjoyed my tribute and if I have amused you, if you disagree, if you have something to say… go ahead and click this little button labeled review. Thanks!


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